Finally free of Flo-Job, he continued his mission looking into every cranny his wet eyes could peer into, closets, cupboards, between mattresses, under beds and dressers as Flo-Job clung onto his pant leg. Finally exhausted, beaten, he lay on the floor as Flo-Job drooled over him. Flo-Job had two paws on OJ’s chest, and began licking his face. OJ sneezed. Flo-Job growled. OJ reached for his knife he kept strapped below his knee, extracted the stiletto and rammed it into Flo-Job’s ribs. Lunging forward, Flo-Job opened his mouth, took one last mouthful, and snapped at OJ’s nose.
“Yowl,” cried OJ. Grabbing his nose, he felt just a stub. “You sonovabidch…you asshole…you cocksuckin’ mutt. You bit my fuckin’ nose off.” He got up, reached for Flo- Job and opened his mouth. His nose was lying on Flo-Job’s tongue; he grabbed it and put it back in position as best he could. Blood was gushing out all over. Cursing, he reached for his handkerchief and used it to stop the bleeding. Blood covered the floor. Not knowing if he had the time to continue, he quickly took a last look around the house as he held onto his nose. He stopped by the bathroom to wipe himself from all the blood, looked in the mirror at his face, and heard a car coming up the driveway. In one second, he was out the front door and rushing down the street. No more than three houses down the block, he heard Sherry Jung scream. The mother screamed. The father yelled, “What the…” OJ rushed as fast as he could around the corner. No one noticed the strange man holding his nose as he faded out of sight onto Hoover Street.
The nose was put on crooked, not exactly straight on, but off to the side a bit, making OJ look like he had a badly placed prosthesis by a startup student, or someone that didn’t know what they were doing. Looking into the mirror, he slowly removed the bulbous end from his nose and gawked at the gaping hole in the middle of his face. Cursing, he replaced it as best he could, but upside down. He took a bandage and laid it over his nose to keep the bulbous part from leaving its position.
Taking one last look he said, “I’m glad you’re dead, you sonnovabitchin’mothafuckin’ cur. You’ll never do that to anyone or me.” Looking at himself closer in the mirror, he said, “Man do I look like shit.”
102
The resident ghost, Mr. Billy Tall, had very little tolerance for snoopers, especially those who poke around and left his domain untidy.
Billy was an immaculate housekeeper, everything had to be in its place, and any deviation from it caused him to go into a rampage.
When there were disturbances down stairs, Billy would start dragging and shuffling his chains louder, hopefully to keep outsiders away. If that didn’t work, he went on a poltergeist charge. He also had the false belief any form of noise or disturbance kept intruders away. During the spring and fall Chouinard parties, caused Billy to make such a ruckus it seemed to drive the roof off the house. Billy’s commotion had no effect whatsoever. The intense inebriated and elevated condition the festivity was having downstairs overshadowed his upset condition.
Rarely did he have meddlers in his domain. I was an exception after our initial encounter; I made a pact, an agreement of sorts that pleased him—writing down his memoirs. His incessant need to tell me his life at first was welcomed. After a bet, his need to express himself became irritable. He never seemed to leave and give me peace. It’s as they say, give the person a mouth and they’ll gab the whole day―non-stop―filling your head with tidbits of trivia.
While I got ready for work in the morning, Billy would join me in conversation. Thinking it was quite humorous at first, for a ghost to go to such lengths to tell me about his life, I let him talk uninterrupted. Occasionally, I would glance over to Billy, or view him in the mirror while shaving and watching the misty man go through his exaggerated motions. This was good too, because I got a better picture of Billy’s life and suffering—his love for the woman he could never have.
That morning was no different. Billy joined me in the bathroom to tell me about his suffering. Not wanting to interrupt him, I let him rattle on as I shaved, bathed, and dressed. Glancing occasionally toward the foggy image, I noticed Billy, for some reason, stops his chattering. I looked over to him, and all of a sudden, Billy dissolved. Not knowing why, I shrugged it off and continued getting ready for work. Thinking: I guess he forgot it was daylight.
Downstairs, OJ heard Ean’s footsteps clump across the ceiling. Occasionally, OJ pressed the Band-Aid ends to make sure his nose stayed on properly. His eyes followed the sound back and forth. Sneezing, blowing, and cursing, he grabbed a roll of toilet paper and ripped off the last bit. As he held his nose then muttered, “The dude is getting ready to leave. Got to get ready to see what he has.” But, no sooner did he reach for another roll, there wasn’t any. He sneezed into his hands. Each sneeze was dreaded pain that released copious amounts of coagulated blood and mucus. Then he took the bed sheet and wiped it off. Looking around for another tissue, he grabbed anything he could wipe his nose on. An old tissue did fine. Sneezing, blowing into the crumpled tissue, he continued listening to the footsteps clatter across the ceiling. They stopped. His eyes darted back and forth. Again, he picked up the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. A door opened and shut, followed by steps passing his door then out the side entrance. Ean had gone to work.
OJ listened for any other sounds coming from the hall or stairwell. He popped his head out from the Tiffany stain glass window to see if it was Ean. He couldn’t see anyone. “The dude must have gone out the front,” he whispered. He listened again for any other sound coming from within the house, nothing was heard, and then he slithers out of his room. Quiet as a snake, he ascended the stairwell to the next floor; no sound was heard.
Cautious, he looked from left to right. Nothing was seen out of the ordinary. Slow, wary, calm, he walked with the skill of his training and listened as he approached Ean’s door. Twisting the knob once, twice, it didn’t open. He looked down at the keyhole; his face grimaced, then he looked at the key slot. Easy, this was a synch to open. Then all of a sudden a sound came from Mr. Talbot’s room, he stopped and froze. Seconds before Mr. Talbot opened the door; OJ hastily slinked to the back stairwell and waited.
Fussing to put his things together, Mr. Talbot got ready to leave. After he read his newspaper, he neatly placed it on the stack against the wall. He admired his collection, gave it a little pat, and left the room. He stopped briefly at the phone niche, looked at something, but didn’t know what it was he was looking at, turned, waved good-bye, and went out the door. The mime waved back and continued his dialogue with Oliver.
Standing before his beloved car, Mr. Talbot patted the roof, and admired its spotless appearance. For the first time since Ms. Kinnite lived at the Shalimar, he had a clean car. No sooner then he opened the car door, a gardener next door watering the flowerbeds and lawn, tripped and drenched Mr. Talbot’s car. He looked over to the gardener who tripped and gladly said, “Thank God, at least it isn’t piss.”
Mr. Talbot entered his car and fidgeted with the car keys. Shortly after, OJ stood on the side stoop looking at Mr. Talbot. Mr. Talbot didn’t pay any attention to the sinister character. OJ took one look at Mr. Talbot, nodded, but didn’t get any response from him. He started to wave at him, holding up his hand, but it was too late to catch his attention. OJ watched Mr. Talbot back onto the street and drive off. Knowing that Mr. Talbot goes daily to MacArther Park, he walked in the same direction. The only thing on his mind was his nose, and to see what Mr. Talbot did at the park. It would let him know how much time he had to explore Mr. Talbot’s room.
Moments later Mike stuck his head out the door, saw nothing, and turned to Moe. “I guess we can go Moe. I don’t see anybody. I don’t hear anybody either.”
Moe said, “Mike, this laundry bag is big…it’s heavy. Don’t you think somebody’ll get suspicious? Don’t you think we should have gotten suitcases instead?”
“Look Moe, if anybody’s goinna be suspicious, it’s goinna be you. If we got suitcases, it’d be obvious we’d be hidin’ somethin’. All crooks carry money in suitcases. A laundry bag…no…it looks like we got clothes…lots of ‘em. You hear me Moe.” Returning a suspicious glance, Moe shrugged his shoulders. “Look here Moe; we put clothes, my clothes and your clothes in this bag. It looks like we got clothes in this bag…nothin’ else…period.”
“I don’t think so Mike. I think we look suspicious.”
“Listen Moe, if you look suspicious, you’ll be suspicious. If you look normal, you’ll be normal.” He looked up to the ceiling, taking the palm of his hand and hit himself on the head, bam. “Look Moe,” he reiterated, “if you gotta dump in your pants, you’re goinna look like you gotta dump in your pants. Do you capisce, understand, comprendo, versteh…Dumbo!”
“But Mike I can’t look like I’ve got a dump in my pants.”
“Make a dump, and you’ll look like you gotta dump in your pants.”
Moe grunted.
Mike said, “Oh my God what’s next.”
“I can’t. I can’t just do it like you say. It has to come natural like.”
“Look Moe,” Moe eyes enlarged. “Listen to me…ain’t we two alkies?” Moe nodded. “Well then look like your one…okay.”
“Hic…that I can do…that’s for sure…hic.”
“Good, then act the act and walk the talk.”
Moe held out his hands. “Wait, wait, hold it…we forgot somethin’ very important.”
Mike said, “What? What did we forget? I don’t see anything.” He looked around the room. “We’ve got our clothes, bag, money…what else have we forgot?”
“Asche.”
“That CAT.” Mike pointed down at the cat. “How are we goinna take her on the train? We can’t just carry her on. They have rules concerning animals.”
“I’ve seen some people carry pets on the bus.”
“Like how?”
Moe had to think. His brow furrowed, his eyes squinted, and in one motion, he pooped his head up. “In a carry case…that’s how.”
“We don’t have one, and we don’t have time to get one.”
“There’s a pet shop up on Sixth near Alvarado. I’ll just go in there and buy one.”
“We don’t have the time Moe.”
“We’ve got the time. The train don’t leave until later. If you have to get to the train station…go, but I’m not leaving without my Asche. She’s my pussy, and I’m not leavin’ her…you hear.”
103
Holding onto his bandage, sniffing and snorting, OJ entered a corner market on Eighth and Hoover to get some nose wipes. His allergy was driving him mad as he sneezed and snorted phlegm and blood.
Moments later Mike and Moe emerged from the house and headed toward Seventh Street to catch the bus to Main Street. After OJ exited the market he noticed the duo, he leisurely followed, but kept enough out of their sight and appeared to be interested in something other than the two intoxicated chums. Occasionally, he stopped to look at something when Moe nervously looked around.
The two turned on Sixth and Alvarado.
Moe pointed. “See there’s a pet shop. I’m going in.” Mike followed reluctantly. After ten minutes, Moe had Asche in her case, and Mike grumbled as he toted the laundry bad.
The first bus they saw, the two took it. The bus was going in the direction of downtown. The two men entered as Mike dragged the laundry bag between them. Quickly OJ was right behind and entered seconds later. He held a handkerchief over his parted nose to keep the nasal discharge confined. Moe and Mike were unaware of OJ’s presence. For some odd reason, OJ didn’t recognize the laundry bag containing money, only that it was a bag full of cloths. His mind was only centered on the two alkies, not on what they were carrying.
Moe and Mike took seats three rows down. Asche meowed. To calm Asche, Moe reached into Asche’s cage and gave her a gentile tickle under her chin. OJ paid his fee and continued to the back taking a seat next to the window. His view was unobstructed of the two men he was watching.
Moe kept looking around the bus eyeing everyone with a suspicious glare. OJ pretended to dose, but he listened as if he were a cat in search of a mouse, he was all ears. His attention tuned to any conversation on the bus. Listening to Mike and Moe, he decided it was just the two winos gabbing as usual. He didn’t realize what they were up to. OJ’s attention went to the next group of people in conversation. Nothing unusual was heard by the passengers. He continued his fake slumber and listened to other passengers on the bus.
Mike was taking the bus ride all in stride. He dozed; his head bobbed down then jerked to catch himself before he fell too deep into slumber.
“Uh,” he muttered and licked his lips. “You got any with you Moe?”
“Got any of what Mike?”
Mike whispered, “Hooch, what else?”
Moe answered, “Oh yeah, we’re suppose to look like alkies aren’t we.”
“Shhhhhh…not so loud. I don’t want anybody to see us takin’. Now where’s that bag of mine?”
Moe reached into the laundry bag and pulled out a whiskey flask. “Is this what you’re lookin’ for?” he whispered and held it up in clear view.
“Yeah, but it’s suppose to be in the paper bag. Where’s the bag?”
OJ noticed Mike and Moe, going through their slapstick actions and sniggered quietly.
Opening the bag wide, Moe looked in. “Yeah, it’s here Mike,” he said, then gave out a loud hiccup.
“Gimmy that.” Mike jerked it from Moe; put the flask into the paper bag. “Like this dimwit. You know you’re actin’ it up too good. Put your head back on. Don’t make it so obvious. Or they’ll kick us off the bus…and the train too if you act that soused.”
“But, you said Mike.”
“I know what I said. But, you’re doin’ it too good.”
Five minutes passed without a word. Mike looked at the passing street, and turned to Moe to say something about the shops he was looking at. Moe was lying back on the seat with his mouth open. Shaking his head, Mike mumbled, “Oh no, not again. What am I goinna to do with you Moe?”
“Huh, huh.” Moe jolted, sat straight up. “We here yet?” His eyes were as big as saucers. His eyes darted back and forth looking outside and down the bus aisle.
“I wish. We’ve got another two blocks to go Moe.”
“You think everything’ll be okay Mike?”
Casual, Mike uttered, “Everything’ll be fine. Just act normal and don’t over do it.”
“What’s wrong? You don’t like goinna Truckee?”
Hearing the word Truckee, OJ perked up. His keen sense of hearing honed in on the two drunks.
“Shhhh, like I said no one’s supposed to know where we’re goin’,” said Mike.
“Shhhh, like I know Mike. No one’s supposed to know where we’re going, only us two.”
Realizing what Mike and Moe were talking about, OJ eyes opened and focused on the two down-n-outers. After five minutes, the bus stopped at Main Street. The two men got off dragging their duffle bag between them. Moe lugged Asche with two hands.
OJ’s methodical mind searched for answers: They might have the stash, and are going to Truckee. But why Truckee? Was it because of Reno? Why Reno? Was it because they plan to gamble it away. He watched the two men head up Main Street. The bus jerked and eased into the street.
Taking a transfer on Main Street, the bus finally stopped in front of Union Station. Mike was thinking in over-time. With a vigorous gate, Mike continued and said, “We haven’t much time. Let’s hurry Moe.”
“But my legs hurt Mike, and Asche is heavy.”
“I told you not to bring her. I’ll meet you inside, okay.”
“But where Mike?”
“Take a seat in the waitin’ room where we were the other day. I’ll meet you there. I’ve got to do somethin’ fast before we get on the train.”
“What you got to do fast Mike,” he shouted to Mike as he took off with the laundry bag and entered Union Station.
Mike shouted back, “I’ve got to take a pee.” But, Moe didn’t catch the last word.
Moe shouted back, “You’ve gotta see. What you mean Mike…you’ve gotta see what?”
Fifteen minutes passed; Mike was looking for Moe in the waiting room. His eyes searched up and down the large Spanish style hall. Finally, he spotted him. He headed for his companion and took the seat next to him. Moe looked up as Mike took the seat and settled in.
“Whatcha been doin’, I’m worried.”
“I got it all settled. Watch the bag, I gotta take a dump.”
“Me too Mike. I didn’t leave, cause I figured you’d not see me.”
“Let’s make it quick. The train leaves in fifteen minutes on track four.”
“Ten minutes. I can’t pee in that time. You know how my prostate is.”
“Do a half a pee. We’ve gotta make that train. You can do the rest when we get settled in our seats and on our way to our destination.”
104
“Another bottle and another day,” Putnam slurred his words looking at the empty container, turning it upside down and looking through the opening. A drop of whiskey hit him in the eye. It stung. “Ouch,” he screamed wincing from the drip. It woke up Dr. Langweilig from his deep slumber.
“Uh, what, what, what’s goin’ on here?” Dr. Langweilig barked. He looked around and saw Putnam holding his eye. “What in hell happened Putnam? Is there something wrong with your eye? You need a doctor?”
“No, no, just got some hooch in it.”
“What, your eye taking to drink too?”
Laughing, “No just lookin’ at my bottle upside down. Da hooch dribbled in.”
“Next time you look at it, look with your mouth under it. You aren’t going to be my test case if you drink it into your eye.” He laughed.
Laughing at Dr. Langweilig, Putnam said, “Sorry Doc, but I was just lookin’. We’re out. We need more.”
“No problem, you act like it’s the end of the road.”
“But, Doc there just ain’t no more.”
“We’ll just take a jaunt down to the store. It’s as simple as A-B-C, you see, and your wish will be your command.”
Sleepy eyed and staggering back and forth, Putnam said, “You know what Doc?”
“What my good friend and drinking chum?”
“It must be nice to be rich.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m rich, but I’m working on it.”
“You goin’ on another date Doc?”
“I’m thinking I might. The other three were nothing I’d like to make a commitment on.”
“How’s that Doc.”
“Like I told you, I was married once, taken, and burned. Never again will I fall prey to such a trap.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean Doc. Marriage can be either bliss or a pot of piss.”
“I had the piss…mark my words.”
“You goinna ask her to the party comin’ up?”
“The end of summer party the two artsy-crafties are having?”
“Yeah. It’s the annual Shoonardt party. They have it twice a year you know.”
“I’ll have to think about it. I don’t know if she’ll like going to a school party.”
“It ain’t just a school party…hic…it’s the party of parties…you remember? You were there weren’t you?”
“I think so,” said Dr. Langweilig. He gawked at Putnam scratching his groin. His head took a tilt and began to smile. “I’ve been so drunk sense I got here. It’s hard to remember what I did.” Paused, watching Putnam scratching his groin. “You got to take a pee…or you got crabs?”
“Yeah, I gotta take a pee. It hurts somethin’ terrible.”
“Well, don’t just stand there my good man; it’s just across the hall.”
“Yeah I know, but it’s gettin’ up and getting’ there. I can’t quite walk yet.”
Putnam picked up one foot and slammed it down ahead of the other, then did it with the next leg. Dr. Langweilig laughed. “I’m goin’ Doc. As fast as I can.” He stepped over his right foot slowly, and then took another step over his left foot. See Doc, one…two…three…steps. I’m getting there.”
“After you’re through, let’s go down to the liquor store.”
“I’m witcha Doc…I’m witcha. I’ll be just a sec.”
105
The two inebriated chums climb on the train. Mike took the lead, dragged the laundry bag behind him and Moe took up the rear with his pet carrying cage to obscure their camouflage cache. One by one, Mike pointed with his finger at the door numbers and called them out as they passed by. They stopped at door 37. He opened the door and entered. Moe stood at the entrance. Puzzled, he watched Mike put the laundry bag up on the shelf and sat down.
“Why you sittin’ here?” said Moe. “You got first class?”
“That’s right my old man…first class.”
“Ain’t that expensive?”
“Not with the money we have.”
“Oh, that’s right. We’re rich.”
“Not rich…well-to-do is more like the term.”
“So, when we get into Truckee?”
“Shut the door Moe and have a seat. I have somethin’ to tell ya.”
“What’s that Mike?”
“In about thirty minutes after the train takes off I’ll tell ya all about it.” He patted Moe on the knee.
Moe looked at Mike patting his knee. Slowly, warily, Moe whispered, “You’s gay. That’s whatcha wanna tell me…isn’t it.”
Mike burst out laughing. “Nah, no, nah…uh…uh…”
“You’re a fuckin’ fag.” Moe began to cry. “My best buddy’s a fag.”
“No, no, no…it’s somethin’ else Moe.”
Sobbing, “What then Mike?”
“I’ll tell you later gator. This isn’t the right moment. I’ll explain it all in due time…when the train gets outa LA.”
“I hope so. I don’t think I can take this changin’ an’ rechangin’ stuff no more.”
Five minutes down the track, Mike and Moe’s heads flip back and forth watching the scenery pass.
Moe said, “I never knew there were so many buildin’s out this far. You think we’re still in LA?”
Turning to Moe, Mike said, “LA is big. It’s one-hundred miles wide, and one-hundred miles long. A hundred miles square from tip to tip. That’s how big it tiz.”
“A hundred miles square,” Moe whispered. “I can’t believe it. No, wonder why I never left LA. I’d get lost if I’d think about it.”
“Well, we really ain’t in LA. We’re in whatcha might call…the greater LA.”
“The greater LA.”
“Yeah. It’s the whole shemozzled mess from Ventura to San Berdo…from Long Beach to Santa Clarita.”
“The whole shemozzled, huh. Well I’m glad you’re with me Mike. I’d get lost if I’d take the train by myself.”
“Well, we’re chums aren’t we…old friends?” Moe nodded. “Well we’ve been together for a long time, so it’s fitting that we spend the rest of our life together. It’s kinda like bein’ married.”
Moe’s eyes popped open wide as he flinched. “You’re gay. You’re a fuckin’ fag.”
“No Moe. I’m not gay. I’m not even a fag. It’s just a figure of speech. We’ve known each other for so long. We might as well spend the rest of our dyin’ days seein’ it out.”
Moe’s eyes glanced over to the scenery passing by. “What you goinna do with the money if I die Mike?”
Not really knowing what to say to Moe, Mike hummed and hammered over the question. “I guess…I’d shoot myself…dead.”
“Shoot yourself. Why you’d a thing like that Mike?”
“I don’t have any other friends. I know you better than anybody else Moe. You’re the best I’ve ever known.”
Moe’s eyes water. “Ah Mike, you’re the best.”
Their eyes shifted from their conversation to the passing scenery outside. The city became less urban, less industrial and more suburban. They pass Azusa, Pomona, and chug past Claremont, Montclair, and Upland through Ontario. The scenery began to be sparse with newly built gated walled communities here and there. The train passed Cucamonga and Fontana. After a bit the train took a sharp left, then took a long chug ascent past the San Bernardino Mountains, and Lytle Creek came into view.
Mike turned toward Moe. “Now I can tell’ya.”
“Tell me what Mike?”
“Where we’re goin’.”
“We’re not goin’ to Truckee, right?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Cause.”
“Cause why?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
Mike flung his head back. “Now listen to me Moe.”
“I am.”
“No you’re not.”
“If I’m not, what?”
“You’re repeatin’ me.”
“Repeatin’ you.”
“Yes, repeatin’ me.”
Moe hesitated. “What you wants to tell me Mike?”
“We ain’t goin’ to Truckee.”
“You told me that. Why?”
“Because.”
“You’re the one repeatin’ not me.”
Shaking his head, Mike said, “Listen.”
“I am.”
“Good.” Pausing he smiled, then said slowly, “We’re not goin’ to Truckee cause…”
“You said that Mike, why?”
“LISTEN,” Mike shouted. “Because, we’ve gotta trailer after us.”
Moe looked back out the window, enunciated, “Trai-ler. What you mean we’ve gotta trailer after us?” He looked outside again. “I see only passenger cars.”
“I mean someone’s followin’ us.”
Moe shouted, “I told you Mike, they’re comin’ after us.”
“Wait Moe, listen to me. I saw this guy on the bus lookin’ at us. I figured if he finds out where we’re goin’, I’ll change our destination.”
“You’ve changed our destination…where?”
“We’re goin’ to Omaha.”
“But, but,” Moe stammered, “why Omaha?”
“Cause Moe…Omaha is nowhere.”
“Whatcha mean Mike?”
“It’s the furthest thing from Truckee and LA.”
“But, if Omaha is nowhere…what’s there Mike?”
“Corn. Nothin…just corn.”
* * *
106
It was half past three in the afternoon. OJ entered the Shalimar, and started to ascend the staircase when stopped by Dawg and Kitzi coming out of their room. Dawg noticed OJ but didn’t say anything at first, but watched OJ stop at the mezzanine room. Dawg noticed something in the phone niche. He shook his head. The mime was on a dialogue rampage. Dawg shook his head as he looked up to OJ.
Kitzi said, “What is it? Why you shaking your head?”
He grimaced. “I don’t know. Something looks odd.” Looking up to the mezzanine room, he called up, “You must be the new guy.”
Turning around, OJ said, “Yeah, I’m da new guy on the block,” clickity-clack-clack, went his lip studs. He chuckled. “More like da new dude in the gilded cage.” He looked up to the mezzanine Tiffany stain glass window and pointed.
Dawg, Kitzi laughed along with OJ.
“So, what brings you to the Shalimar?” said Dawg.
“Uh, I was lookin’ for a cool place da live…man. You know whadt I mean man,” clickity-clack-clack.
“Well, you found it here. What do you do?”
“I’m an ardtist. I go to ardt school…Odtis,” clickity-clack-clack.
“Otis…oh that other school. That’s in Santa Monica, right. Or have they moved again?”
“Yeah, somewhere like dthat. I haven’t figured id out jus yedt.” He motioned. “Somewhere dtoward da beach.”
Dawg turned to Kitzi. “The dude sounds like he knows what it’s all about.”
“You have any with you…Jack?” said Dawg.
“My name is O-dJay. People call me O-dJay,” clickity-clack-clack, “About the sdtuff. I’m goin’ in a minute da gedt some. You wandt some?” Clickity-clack-clack.
“Is it good stuff…man?”
“The besdt money can buy.”
“See you later dude.”
“Right on,” said Kitzi.
Back in his room, OJ pondered: I’ve got everything to get in, but I can’t now, it’s too late. But, I can go into Mr. Talbot’s room. He doesn’t usually return until six or so. And then, I can have a good look to see if he’s got it, which I doubt. But you can never t